The Custard Corpses: A delicious 1940s mystery (The Erdington Mysteries)

by M J Porter

  “Yes, but, well, Anthony is smiling, and Robert seems to be laughing, and well, there’s one of Esme crying. I think the children were alive when he did these.”

  Sam’s blood ran cold at the words.

  “I always just assumed he killed them straight away,” he admitted.

  “I think we all did, but perhaps not.”

  Sam shook his head, a lump in his throat, making it difficult to speak.

  “We’ll need to take that back with us. It’s important evidence. I’ll see if there’s any more.”

  He turned aside from the sketchbook, only to swivel once more and gently prise it from O’Rourke’s fingers, to place it on the ground to the side of them both.

  “Enough of that,” he said softly. “Even hardened police officers will struggle to look at those smiling and distressed children.” He noticed the tears quietly streaming down her shadowed cheeks, and he felt compelled to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “I won’t say you shouldn’t look, and I won’t dare say it’s because you’re a woman. But I will say that those images disturb me, greatly. We can’t un-see what we’ve seen, but we can try not to dwell on it, even while we use the knowledge to solve this terrible series of crimes.”

  “Of course, Chief Inspector,” but her voice was thick with sorrow. If there was time for a cup of tea, it was now, but there was the rest of the crate to search first. Sam appreciated that if he walked away from this task, he’d struggle to return to it.

  Resolutely, he searched for more of the sketchbooks and pulled not one but three likely looking parcels from the depths of the crate. He opened them to assure himself that they contained images of his victims and set them aside. He wasn’t about to sift through them now. That would be done back at the station.

  Sam also ran his hands over the odd shapes that remained but quickly realised they were all statues as well. Sam carefully unwrapped one of them, but it was merely another naked torso, this time, a male one. It seemed the artist had enjoyed surrounding himself with the human form.

  Other than the three new sketchbooks, and another five statues, there was little worth in the crate aside from an artist’s paraphernalia of blank canvasses, easel, brushes, and a multi-layered box that contained paints and brushes.

  Carefully, he returned the packaging materials to the crate, and with the aid of O’Rourke, who still looked drained from her initial discovery, managed to replace the lid.

  “Now for a nice cup of tea,” he promised O’Rourke, as they walked in silence back through the stockroom. He noticed the packers' interested faces but shook his head slightly, stopping them from asking questions. He felt weighed down with the new knowledge he carried. There was a relief in knowing the case would be solved. Still, there was also the dawning realisation that for all these years he’d hoped Anthony hadn’t suffered or been aware of what was happening to him, he no longer carried that assertion, and they’d have to share it with the family who still lived.

  Chapter 15

  Smythe met them at Birmingham New Street railway station with the police car which he’d evidently driven there, himself.

  “I need to see what you’ve found,” Smythe offered, but there was an intensity to the gaze that made Sam appreciate that his Superintendent was not quite the non-nonsense fellow he always appeared.

  Darkness had long fallen, and Sam felt as though the day had lasted for twice as long as usual. Every part of him ached, not just his back. His head was pounding; probably from all the tea he’d consumed. O’Rourke had spoken little, but she’d offered a few small smiles when he’d tried to speak with her. He wasn’t going to treat her with kid-gloves. No, she was a police constable who, like him, had discovered something unsettling about human nature that day.

  They’d both recover, but he doubted that would start until they’d been able to draw a definitive end to all of the cases they knew about, perhaps even discovering more along the way.

  Sam had telephoned Smythe from Sotheby’s to inform him of their findings. Smythe had been his usual taciturn self, promising to send a car to collect them from the 3 pm train rather than make them take the tram back to Erdington because they now carried the four heavy sketchbooks as well as the portfolio from Mr Owl. Sam hadn’t expected Smythe to drive the car himself.

  “I’ve informed the Chief Superintendent of your discoveries. He’s going to inspect everything tomorrow morning, and then we’ll determine how we move from here. If the man is dead, as seems to be the case, it’ll be both a blessing for the families and a disappointment. But, we need to ensure everything is proved, incontrovertibly. We need to be able to tie all the cases together and discover if there are others. It’ll be a huge task, but for now, we need to acknowledge how difficult the case has been and how unsettling it all is.”

  It was a long speech for the Superintendent, and the words were a comfort, although Sam struggled to find a way of responding.

  “To the station,” Smythe quickly stated, as though he’d not expected a response, and O’Rourke settled in the car beside him. It was an unusual arrangement. Normally, she’d be the one driving. Between them, the four sketchbooks and the portfolio seemed to occupy a considerable amount of space. They were as silent as the rest of them, but they promised answers and horrors that Sam had never expected to see in all his years with the police force.

  There was little traffic on the road. It had been a bitterly cold day, and of course, there was little petrol to spare with all the rationing, even for the police cars, ambulances, and fire engines.

  Sam hefted the sketchbooks as soon as they arrived outside the station and strode through to the back room without pausing to speak to anyone. Luckily, Jones had finished for the day, but Sam also carried the conviction that Smythe had warned the rest of his police officers about the burden of their task.

  With the overhead lights on, Sam went to unwrap the sketchbooks. Mr Spinkle had eagerly agreed that they could take the sketchbooks without even looking at them. Sam had insisted on leaving a receipt with him. He didn’t want there to be any problems with the evidence later on. Especially as Smythe had since heard from Mr Owl’s secretary, and she’d confirmed that it had been Sotheby’s auction house who’d sold the portfolio. And that was as it should be. Everything needs to tie together.

  “You can just leave them there,” Smythe instructed when he entered the room, O’Rourke behind him. “I’ll look through them now. What I need from you both is an idea of who the drawings represent.”

  “I think when you see them that there’ll be no doubt in your mind,” O’Rourke stated, her voice wobbling a little.

  “Perhaps,” Smythe stated, and Sam watched him carefully, noticing how the man seemed to reconsider his suggestion, only to open the first sketchbook and visibly shudder. It gave him some small comfort to know that he’d not overreacted.

  “I think we have Anthony, Robert and Esme in the first book, as well as some unknowns. I’ve not looked in any detail at the other books.”

  “We’ll do that now then,” and Smythe pulled one of the other books toward him. He opened the first page with hesitation, and Sam wasn’t surprised.

  “I don’t know who the girl is,” Sam commented quickly. On the second page, he gasped with recognition.

  “That’s the Berwick Upon Tweed boy, William.”

  “And that’s Geoffrey,” O’Rourke confirmed.”

  “And that’s Deirdre.” Sam could hear the fatigue in his voice.

  Smythe closed the sketchbook with a resounding thud.

  “And in this one?” he asked.

  “That’s Frederick on page one,” O’Rourke confirmed.

  “And Mary and Gerald,” Sam confirmed.

  Smythe’s movements were slower now, the tension clear to see on his face.

  “And finally.”

  “Well, that’s Ivy, but I don’t recognise the other male,” Sam confirmed. Smythe closed the sketchbook, which was empty after those two drawings. He turne
d to gaze at Sam. O’Rourke had taken a seat, her hands clasped tightly to the surface of the table, as though she needed to hold on to keep upright.

  “What I want to know, if possible, is if we have the first victim, what was his name, I forget?”

  “Geoffrey,” O’Rourke quickly provided, her eyes scanning the map before them, and to which Smythe had his back turned.

  “So we do have him, then?

  “Yes, Geoffrey is in the second book we looked at.”

  Smythe fixed him with a firm stare, no doubt hearing the exhaustion in Sam’s voice and noting that O’Rourke was struggling as well.

  “You’ve both done more than enough. That’s why I’m here. I’m thinking of bringing in some specialists in the area, but I’ve discovered that there is no specialist for such a crime. The Chief Superintendent’s told me to do whatever needs to be done and to ensure you keep fit and well, both of you.”

  At that moment, the door opened, and young Roger appeared with a tray of tea and a cheerful grin. The lad had only just joined the police. He was filled with enthusiasm for even the most mundane of tasks, even at this time of night. Just looking at him made Sam feel old. He’d known his father, his grandfather as well. It didn’t seem right that Roger should be old enough for a proper job.

  “Here you go, guv,” and he slid the tea tray down onto the table nearest the door. He sought out O’Rourke, and after grinning widely at her, so much that Sam suspected all of his white, gleaming teeth were visible, he left the room. Sam couldn’t help but smile. He remembered being that young, but he didn’t remember being quite so carefree. It was a knack he didn’t think he’d ever possessed.

  After a few minutes of flicking through the pages, Smythe spoke.

  “These are most disturbing,” he confirmed, coughing to clear the thickness of his throat. “I think I need a cup of tea,” and he closed the sketchbook and moved to pick up one of the mugs. Roger had chosen the thick, heavy mugs, and Sam could see the mud of the tea, so strong he knew he might regret the taste, even as he spooned three sugars into the swirling mixture.

  Smythe slurped his tea, turning to peer at the map on the wall.

  “The railways or the roads,” he offered, startling Sam.

  “Pardon?”

  “He made use of the railways or the roads. I’ll be curious to know what he used. I’m leaning towards the railways. Everywhere he went was on the main train line. If he’d come into Birmingham from Cambridge, he would have been able to reach every destination without too much trouble.”

  “Well, we might determine that when we visit the property,” a task that Sam was not looking forward to, not at all, especially having seen the impact it had had on the men from Sotheby’s.

  “Yes, we need to find all the answers, all of them.” And Sam detected the menace in Smythe’s voice. It was clear even he wouldn’t be happy until they’d resolved all of their lingering questions.

  Chapter 16

  “The first task of the day must be to check that this fellow is actually dead. I’ve placed a call to the Registrar General in London. I’ve given them the date of death, his name, and his address, as we now have it. They said they’d get on to it, but I’m not sure how quickly they’ll be able to track down the record, what with everything going on right now. And, if it was all those years ago, they’ve probably archived the things.” Sam had barely walked through the door of the station, and he still wore his coat. Glancing at Smythe in surprise, he noted the telephone receiver in his hand.

  “Now, I’m going to contact the Chief Superintendent and invite him to see the evidence. I want him to see what we have before we involve the Cambridge police. When O’Rourke arrives, you two need to have a good sort through, make everything as obvious as possible. Those drawings, the details of the deaths, and of course, the adverts that tie the drawings to the children, and vice versa, the invoice from Owl and Sotheby’s. Make sure it’s all nice and tight, easy to decipher.”

  Sam opened his mouth to decry the necessity, only for Smythe to start speaking into the receiver.

  “Chief Superintendent, it’s Smythe here. Erdington, sir.” Exasperation rippled through his good cheer. “The old case from 1923. This could be it. The breakthrough we need, but I need you to see it all first.”

  A pause, while Smythe energetically nodded his head, and Sam slowly backed into the main office door, keen to be away from the bright-eyed and keyed-up superintendent. It was clearly going to be another long day.

  At the last possible moment, before he disappeared inside, O’Rourke swung open the front door, bringing with her a blast of cold air, her face bright with exertion. Her chin immediately bobbed upwards as she caught sight of Smythe, eyes wide, and only then Sam. He beckoned her through quickly, and she skipped across the tiled area while Smythe continued to speak to the Chief Superintendent.

  “What’s that about?” she asked as soon as they were ensconced in the back room.

  “The Chief Superintendent, and he’s been on the phone to the Registrar General already this morning. He wants to check our murderer is really dead. I hadn’t considered that, I must admit.”

  “What time did he get here?” she arched an eyebrow as she spoke in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

  “Goodness only knows. He’s zealous. I can’t deny it.”

  “What do you suggest then? We really can’t get much more obvious than it already is,” and she indicated the tables filled with information, the map on the wall in front of them, with the pertinent facts on white pieces of card.

  “We’ll put together a one-page summary for each case and then place it next to the drawing and the advert. I know we know it all, but it makes sense. We want this to be as clear as possible. And, we’ll do it in chronological order. No point starting at the end, or even with Robert, not when we know so many went before him.”

  She grimaced at the tedious task allotted to them, and he chuckled softly.

  “It’ll keep us in the warm all day,” he consoled. “I hear there’s been a case of grave robbing in the cemetery, or perhaps not robbing, but a disturbance, shall we say. Someone else will get to spend the day canvassing those who live close by to see if they can find the scoundrel who did that to the war graves.”

  “And speaking to the vicar. You know how he can talk?” Sam nodded, pleased to see that O’Rourke was prepared to play along. He imagined that if she was like him, the only focus was on getting to Cambridge. But there was much to do before that.

  “If this goes well, I’m going to ask if we can summon Hamish back to Erdington. Without his help, we wouldn’t be where we are. I think he should see all this, see what his drawings revealed to us.”

  O’Rourke laughed as he spoke, turning to hang her coat over the back of a chair, removing her hat with a sign of relish.

  “At some point, you’ll have to take the acclaim for this. It was you who pursued the case. It was you who gathered together all the right information to bring an end to it.”

  Sam grunted at her words, and her laughter pealed around the room, but she held her tongue.

  “Okay, so first of all, there’s the 1918 case, Geoffrey.”

  “Yes, I’ve got the file here,” O’Rourke called to him, standing before the table filled with the information they’d obtained from Cambridge thanks to the assistance of Chief Inspector Willows (retired). Sam shook his head. Even now, he considered whether the Cambridge force would have made any sort of connection between Geoffrey and the other murders. He doubted it.

  “What was his full name again? These surnames bedevil me.” Sam had a plain sheet of paper before him, with the name Geoffrey written at the top.

  “Geoffrey Swinton, date of birth 1st July 1900.”

  Sam’s head swivelled up at that, his hand faltering.

  “And he died on the 1st July?”

  “He did, yes. Poor soul.” Sam hadn’t made the connection before. He swallowed away another swathe of grief.

  “Poor
parents, and his poor uncle as well.”

  “He was found at the playing fields that belonged to the Higher Grade School, just off Queen Edith’s Way.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Um, well, he was beneath the rugby posts. Let me see.” Sam waited. He couldn’t remember either but was sure it would be detailed in the notes.

  “Here it is. It lists his clothes. He had on rugby boots, long black shorts, a white and red striped jersey, and socks. Well, one sock. Just the one. It was black and white, striped.”

  “Did they find anything else with the body?”

  “Just the rugby ball, which they said belonged to his uncle.”

  “Hum, and was there any other connection to his uncle?”

  “Only that he was the last to see him alive.”

  “But the cause of death was drowning?”

  “It was, yes. They say that the uncle killed him in the river and dragged the body to the sports field, hoping no one would realise he’d been drowned. Also, I don’t know if you read this part; the uncle would inherit the estate if his nephew died. So, they had him with a decent motive as well.”

  “All the same, shoddy police work to have a man hang for a crime he didn’t commit.” Wisely, O’Rourke held her tongue, even as Sam flicked a glance at her, and appreciated that she was studying the file Cambridge had sent to them. No doubt, she wanted to see if there was anything else.

  “You know how we have those initials found in Inverness, on a cufflink?” she eventually asked.

  “What about them?”

  “Well, what do you make of this?” and O’Rourke passed a photograph to him. “Look, there?” and Sam did as he was bid.

  “What’s that?”

  “It looks like a tie pin to me, and see, faintly, you can make out the initials S and M on it.”

  “Blasted thing. How did they not realise that was there?”

  “Well,” and again, she had her nose in the file. “It looks to me as though they did but dismissed it. They took it away with the body but never thought to find out to who it belonged.”